


Phial V for Valentine

by wordybirdy



Series: Trifle Bubbles - One-Shots & Multi-Chaptered [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9545393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: A tarot card reading reveals a most unpleasant premonition.  Who is behind the phials of blood that begin to arrive at 221B with a chilling regularity?  Holmes endeavours to uncover the secret before it's too late.





	1. The Emperor at Risk

Sherlock Holmes yawned widely and stretched his legs, throwing his arms above his head so that the length of him resembled a brown land snake in rigor mortis. His dressing-gown fell open, revealing the night shirt, white and rucked, and an expanse of smooth, pale leg. The fireplace he sat beside cast out its warming glow, and flickered shadows on the rug. The time: an early morning in mid-winter, in the year of 1890.

“February,” my friend said suddenly – between a sally of loud grunts – “is quite intolerable.”

“Yes,” I replied, “it is, and you're hogging the fire, Holmes.”

“My dear fellow,” said he, “I am most terribly sorry.”

He might have even meant it, for he retracted, sat up straight, and smiled my way. 

“I suppose that you will be scolding for me to get dressed next,” he said.

“Not at all. I rather prefer you in a state of déshabillé.”

“I am wearing my dressing-gown,” he retorted, “which is hardly _déshabillé_ , as you so put it.”

I rose from the sofa and stepped across to his chair. I leaned over and placed a light kiss to his cheek. “Well, you should get dressed, then,” I said. “It is almost nine o'clock. If a client calls, you'll have to hop.”

“No sane client would be out in this weather,” said he. He stood up all the same and, with a shiver, headed off for the stair, and a warm set of clothes. I took the place he had vacated; the seat was warm, his trace remaining. I burrowed down, I lit my pipe, I watched the coals pop in the hearth.

Winter sets a man to thinking. It is a time for contemplation, resolution, and fresh spirit. I thought about our home life, now at its happiest and settled. I considered Holmes's practice, which was the busiest we had known it for some time. We were at a pleasant spot indeed at this point in our lives – the beginning of the fifth year of our love. All that had gone before it, all of the trials that had beset us, all that we had overcome, had made us stronger as a pair. 

I was still thinking in this vein ten minutes later, when Holmes stepped back into the room, now washed and dressed and ready for the day ahead. With four long strides he was upon me, perched as an awkward barn owl on the chair arm.

“I hopped,” he said, “but now only to find that you have stolen my berth.”

I reached out and pinched at his behind. He squirmed sideways. “That's too bad,” I said, laughing. “But you may as well squeeze in beside me.”

“I don't want to crease my suit,” said Holmes. “You are always wanting to pull my clothes around. No, John, just stop it now.”

I dare say that if you, the reader, found yourself with Holmes's backside at your disposal, you might not stop either; and I am a man who finds temptation somewhat difficult.

“That suit is my favourite,” I said. “It becomes you very well.” I withdrew my hand reluctantly. “But shall I get up?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “That is all right. I think that I might --”

As to what my friend was about to say, I never did find out. For the bell rang loud below us, then rang again, and thrice for luck. I groaned. An early client. I looked around for pencil and paper in case I might be taking notes. We waited for the footfall on the stairs up to the landing, and they came, two sets, one firm, one slow.

Two raps upon our door, and Mrs. Hudson's head poked in.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said she. “Mr. Holmes, you have a visitor. It's a Mr. Archie Flowers, from Charing Cross.”

We sprang up from our seats, and Holmes stepped forward to our guest, whose head was inclined just through our threshold, peering around, eyes wide and curious.

“Well, well,” said Holmes, “Mr. Flowers, from Charing Cross, you are very welcome. Do come in, and close the door. You are letting in a draught. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that will be all.”

Archie Flowers came in and closed the door obediently behind him. He hovered then, uncertain, but in a dash of strong resolve set to his worry.

“Mr. Holmes,” said he, “I have a strange conundrum that I hope you might assist with.”

“Strange conundrums are my speciality,” my friend replied.

“That is a good job, then – and I hope you will not mock me, but I have been anxious these past days, and I heard you were a helpful sort of fellow, and I was in the area anyway, and so I--”

“--Patience with tongue-tied young clients, however,” said Holmes, his tone now sharp, “is not.”

Mr. Flowers looked pained. “I was just getting to the point,” he said. “If you might just indulge me. As I was saying, these past few days have been a trial. I am a married man, and I have reason to believe that my wife – Florrie, that is her name – is in a, er, well, an er...” 

Holmes closed his eyes. I heard his breathing, slow and deep, from my position by the mantelpiece.

“She is carryin' on behind my back,” the young man blurted out at last. “And I can't be having that at all. No, not at all.”

“I am not a marriage guidance counsellor,” said Holmes.

“Maybe as not, but I thought that you might help me find who the fellow is, and sort him out, like.”

“I don't 'sort out' people either,” said my friend. “That is hardly my style. How did you come by this suspicion? A misplaced love letter? The pair were seen in close vicinity?”

“No,” said Mr. Flowers. “Nothing of that nature, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn't have suspected, if it weren't for my tarot card reader – for she's the one that told me. She saw it in the Three of Swords, and that's an honest fact, sir.”

“Oh dear,” said Holmes. He walked to the door, pulled it open, and gestured. “It's been a pleasure to meet you.”

“You are not taking my case?” asked the fellow, forlorn.

“I regret not,” replied Holmes. “Good day, Mr. Flowers.”

We listened to his boots as they clattered down the stairs and along the hall into the street. The front door banged.

“Holmes,” I said, “that was most impolite.”

“Pshh,” said my friend. “I have no time for mystic woo-woo. Do you remember some years ago, John, we had a case that was centred around a crystal skull?”

“Of course,” I replied, with a smile. “In fact, I recounted the whole affair in my tale _A Passion for Jasper_.”

“Ye-es.”

“If that fellow shows up dead tomorrow morning, you will be sorry.”

“If there were any possibility of that, his tarot reader would have told him. Ha! Well, that's enough. Don't look so mournful, John. Oh, for goodness sake, don't tell me that the subject interests you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It might. Theoretically, at least.”

“Tchaw!”

I was fast, but not fast enough, as Holmes dodged away from the stretch of my hand.

“Come back here,” I said.

He was laughing now. “ _No_. Can't you see that I have work to do? I have notes to write up. I can't do any of that if you're manhandling me.”

“Although it might be fun to try,” I mused. It was no use, however. Holmes was sitting at his desk and opening up his leather-bound journal. I watched him as he wrote, with left elbow leaning on the blotter, his dark head propped into his hand. Another monograph; this one upon hair, both human and beast. (It seemed the oddest thing to me to base a monograph upon.)

By twelve o'clock, he was half done with it, in fact had thrown his pen down and was standing at the window looking out. The weather was quite frightful; it was raining now, the fall piercing the fog that settled on the looming lamp posts. 

“Diabolical,” said Holmes. Then: “Hello there, who is that?”

“Who is who?”

“The fellow out there on the street, the one who's dithering by the postbox. He's looking up this way, you see him now?”

I squinted. “Yes, I see him. Bearded, dressed in brown, with an umbrella in his hand.”

“John, everyone has an umbrella in their hand. It is raining. Oh, here he comes. Ho hum, he's stopped again. No, here he is.”

The bell rang for the second time that day.

“Mr. Holmes,” puffed Mrs. Hudson, as she pushed our door half open. “Another visitor for you. This gentleman is a Mr. Sloan. He says it's most important.”

Mr. Sloan – bearded, dressed in brown, with an umbrella in his hand – took three long strides into the room.

“Good afternoon,” said he, “I do hope I'm not disturbing you. It's an urgent matter, otherwise I should not have ventured out this far. You are in danger, Mr. Holmes! Your very life!”

Our client then set to nodding as if he had some monstrous tic, and I looked towards the brandy in case the poor fellow was in need, he did seem so sore disturbed.

“My life?” said Holmes. “Elaborate. And take a seat just where you like.”

The gentleman perched upon our sofa, and mopped his brow with his 'kerchief. He gazed up at Holmes in awe, as if my friend were an extraordinary deity.

“My name is Roger Sloan, and I live close by the National Gallery,” he explained. “Not that that has much to do with anything. I simply came here to warn you, Mr. Holmes, and that is all. I have followed your casework with great interest – I see your name appear in the papers all the time, it seems, these days – and so I suppose you are something of a hero to me. An inspiration, if you will.”

My friend appeared unsure as whether to puff his chest or frown.

“So it happened just yesterday evening,” Mr. Sloan continued quickly, “that I paid one of my occasional visits to an old friend of mine. You won't have heard of her, I doubt, for she is the Gypsy May Baron who works near Charing Cross.”

Holmes started, as did I.

“The Gypsy May reads tarot cards,” said Mr. Sloan – who had not noticed our sudden snap to fast attention – “and she read a spread for me, at my request. Good gracious me, those cards! If you had seen them, Mr. Holmes. They pointed fair and square at you, there's no denying, although not mentioning you by name, of course. I don't know if you're aware of how the tarot works? Oh, well. The Emperor, The Tower, Death, and others, they all popped their heads up. It's you, Mr. Holmes, and your life is at risk, I just know it.”

Whereupon the esoteric Mr. Sloan sprang from his seat, and commenced to leap with flailing arms and wet umbrella and nodding head towards my friend.


	2. The Gypsy May, a Maypole, and a Phial

I reacted quickly in defence, but Holmes was swifter; he grasped the wrists of the troubled man, and held him firm. The fellow stood now, trembling, cowered, and deflated.

“Mr. Sloan, please don't be noisy,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You're dripping water on the carpet, more's the pity.”

“I am so deeply, incredibly sorry, Mr. Holmes,” our guest returned. “I meant you no harm by my charging towards you. I am not a violent man. I was so caught up with the urgency to warn you of the danger. For if anything should happen, well, I don't think I could bear it, with the knowledge that I might well have prevented the atrocity!”

“Sit down,” said Holmes. “Yes, anywhere. Now, please do explain, what do you mean by that?”

“It is like I said,” replied the fellow, “by my coming here and telling you. I suppose you are a sceptic? Scientists most often are, and the same goes for detectives, as the paths often converge. Hmm! As it is, I have no proof.” 

Mr. Sloan took a deep breath and then exhaled. He examined his umbrella, and gazed upon the trail of water that lay in wide concentric circles, so chronicling his tour about the room.

“I say,” said he, “I'm sorry for the drips.”

“Pay them no mind,” my friend said pleasantly. “Now, it is true I have no knowledge of the tarot, as you say. If my name was not discussed, then I wish you might expound upon your theory. Otherwise it's wild conjecture, as I'm sure you would agree.”

For the next five minutes Mr. Sloan regaled us with the grounds for his belief. We were reminded of his devotion and respect, and how his thoughts had been of Holmes when he had paid his friend, the gypsy, a short visit for a reading, and she had asked him what concerned him, and how he might be needing clarity. He had no family to speak of, nor many other friends to talk with. He thought it might be interesting to see what she could reveal about his 'hero'.

“I realise now how very mad it sounds,” he said, his cheeks a flush. “But Gypsy May was so emphatic, and it made sense at the time. I am very much afraid that I have made a fool out of myself.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “I am much obliged for your concern. I assure you that I will bear everything in mind; you need not doubt it.” This, with a courteous bow towards our visitor.

The fellow thanked us, shook our hands, and shuffled out. Holmes closed the door and turned to look at me.

“John, upon my word,” said he, “this has been the most curious day.”

“A day of coincidence,” I agreed. “Two visitors who apparently both commune with that strange gypsy, and seek your advice on the same day. Is there more to it, do you think?”

Holmes flung up his hands. “Who the devil can say? Perhaps all of London has found itself in the grip of a psychic revolution, and we ourselves are far behind the times. Would it be a sound idea to begin to solve cases with the use of the tarot? Ha! It would save on boot leather at least.”

The midday mail broke our attention on the matter. Holmes sifted through the letters, with little grunts of mild displeasure or approval as he saw fit. There was a short note from Lestrade, a longer line from Langdale Pike, the news sheet gossip-monger, and the last a textbook parcel we had ordered very recently from Barnes on Oxford Street. The first, my friend replied to with a two word telegram. The second met with a snort and was discarded in the fire. The third, we both pored over for an hour in combined study.

“What news from Pike, then?” I enquired at the first interval.

Holmes shook his head. “The man is a fool. As I seem to recall, you once called him _'an insufferable little tart'_. That is true, to a point. He is so mired within his gossip that he fails to see the wider world. Still, it's useful for me, for as fool as he is, he is a fount of information on every scandal one could mention. He assisted in my last case – that affair with Mrs. Bannering.”

“Yes.” A pause. “I really don't like him.”

“I know.”

“And how is Lestrade?”

My friend smiled. “Overworked and underpaid, as he never ceases to inform me. I rather enjoy his correspondence all the same. We should pop in to Scotland Yard next week to see him, John.”

“All right.”

“His note was to inform me that William Eldritch is out of prison.”

“William Eldritch?”

“Yes, oh, you must remember the fellow. A notorious poisoning case, five years ago. My evidence helped to put the crook behind bars. He was released early, on account of good behaviour, a few days ago.” Holmes snorted. “'Good behaviour'! Pah! I had best make a note in my Index before I forget.”

“And then?”

Holmes looked at me sideways. “I know that tone of voice,” he said. “And it spells trouble for my buttons.”

I burst into laughter. “But on the subject of buttons, it is you who thinks I have a surplus.”

“Yes, well. At least _I_ undo _your_ five hundred and three buttons nicely. You rip at my few like a maniac.”

I hooked an arm around him, pulled him prone upon the sofa. He emitted a soft squawk. I set to anchor him with half my body weight.

“You take that back.”

“I shan't.”

I kissed him; smoothed his hair back. “I think you will.”

With a free hand I roved his front, caressed his maypole through the twill, and decided that I should like to dance around it, if he were willing. I said as much aloud, and almost broke the mood entirely.

“John,” said he, “your language grows more flowery by the hour.” 

Now, there's a limit to what lovers can do, on a sofa, in daylight, with an unlocked room door. We could move, or desist, or carry on as we were, doing little but nothing of naught.

“Upstairs,” I said. I was whetted, flushed, and keening.

He jutted up against me, teasing, promising, but immotile.

“Damn you,” I whispered. I bit at his ear. I tormented his neck. “Damn you.”

Those eyes of his, grey, and heavy-lidded, gazing up at me.

“I could take you right here.”

He blinked rapidly, his breathing ripped and ragged. “Yes. You could.”

I was in two half minds about it.

“And this is why I rip your buttons, you do realise?”

He chuckled. “Yes.”

I leaned forward. “You are a cock tease.”

“You like me that way.”

“I do. I admit it. But damn you.”

We straightened ourselves out.

“I should write a monograph on the subject,” said Sherlock Holmes, rising up and making for the Persian slipper and his pipe.

And that set us to mirth, and on to other, more sensible topics better suited for the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning brought the first of them: a parcel, small, and square, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. Stamped with a local postmark, our address in high block capitals, and 'Strictly Private, for the attention of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.'

Inside, a wooden box, dull and unpolished, a tight brass catch upon the lid. Under the lid, a bed of ruffled velvet; and on that, a small glass phial.

The phial contained a liquid, deep dark red, stopped with a cork. A label, gummed, affixed, that bore one letter: that of 'E'.

Holmes held the phial aloft, up to the light, and turned it this way and the next.

“I fancy it is blood,” said he.

“Is there a note, or a letter, or anything?” 

“No, there is nothing,” he replied. “Only the phial. Hmm. I wonder what the 'E' stands for.”

Closer inspection confirmed the liquid to be blood.

“A letter may follow,” said Holmes, quite unruffled. “I suppose we must wait.”

I was disturbed all the same, but said nothing. A rude awakening, I thought, after the night that we had spent: our blissful 'goat's jigg'; of re-entwining, and of his yielding; the sweet reward after the coquetry. 

I stared hard at the glass phial upon its green and velvet pillow. Something macabre, or scientific? A first name initial, or... what else?

Scarcely five hours later, the questions twisted in my mouth. A second mail delivery: another box, a twin, to join our first. Holmes tore off the wrapping, plucked the new phial from its bed. His expression was now vexed.

“This phial is also labelled, but with the initial 'L',” said he.

“E...L...” I shook my head. “This makes no sense, Holmes.”

Holmes placed the two phials side by side, and sat down to consider. “There should be a letter, or a telegram. Why the secrecy? John, this is irksome. Unless...” And here my friend paused. “Unless...”

“Unless the tarot card reader's prediction is coming true,” I said. My heart lurched at the thought of it. 

“If these phials are spelling the danger, then I don't like it, John, not in the least,” he replied. “Look at them. Look once again. And now think. Think back.”

I looked, and looked again, and did my best.


	3. The Hell of E.L.

“E.L.” I said, considering. “An elevated liver?”

“A _what?_ John, I know you're a doctor, but really. That's the first thing that springs to your mind?”

“It's the only thing,” I said.

Holmes rolled his eyes. “Who did I speak of, only yesterday?”

“Lestrade,” I said, relieved to have the answer right at last.

“No...”

“Oh. _Oh._ That diabolical fellow, what's-his-name... Eldritch!”

“Yes, William Eldritch,” said my friend. “Now, I realise that it's a capital mistake to theorise in advance of the facts, but it's really too great a coincidence: this man gets out of prison, and more than likely he harbours a grudge. A few days later, here we are with these two phials that spell the onset of his surname.” Holmes spread his hands. “Well, it's a theory, if a poor one. What do you say to it?”

“I don't understand why he should mail you his blood,” I replied, all my thoughts in a spin. 

Holmes became quiet. I allowed him the space that he needed, and tackled the problem within my own head, for all the good that might do. Our visitors of yesterday: the cuckolded and tongue-tied Mr. Flowers, and the excitable Roger Sloan; and woven between them, the mysterious tarot lady whom we had still to meet: the Gypsy May. How very strange, all of these characters; their suppositions and their stories. It felt apparent that the gypsy was somehow connected to our problem, but exactly as to how I could not tell.

“I must attempt to find Eldritch,” my friend said at last. “So I will contact Lestrade.” And this he did.

“I am going out for a short while,” said Holmes. “An hour or two, that's all. You need not come with me; the weather is filthy. I am off to Charing Cross. I will be quite safe, don't pout like that. No, _sit_ , John, please. Stay here and smoke, or continue with one of those books we were reading just yesterday.”

He was gone within minutes, wrapped up like a mummy in a thick scarf and gloves, leaving me crestfallen to twiddle my thumbs out until his return. I could not concentrate on books, needless to say, so very puzzled was my head with all this mystery. I pottered down to Mrs. Hudson, found out that fish and baked potatoes was on the menu for that evening, and returned with half a treacle tart to tide our stomachs over.

Holmes was back home by three o'clock. He flung his coat into a corner, tossed the scarf into a chair, and jettisoned his gloves behind his writing desk.

“Brrrr,” he said, rubbing his hands before the fire. “I'm frozen solid, John. I'm an icicle in long johns.”

“What happened?” I enquired, ignoring his plight. “Did you see Gypsy May?”

“Wait a minute. I need to thaw out, and I want a cigarette. Whatever are you eating now?”

“Treacle tart.” I offered him my fork.

“I would rather have my cigarette,” said he, with eyebrows raised. He lit one standing by the fireplace, and exhaled plumes into the air.

I could hardly stand the tension. “Did you see her? What did she _say?_ ” 

Holmes sighed and threw himself into his chair. He steepled his long fingers, looking stern across the top of them.

“Yes, I saw her. Try to be patient, John. I had to ask for directions to her kiosk, for it is somewhat off the main stretch of road. I found it – with some trouble – and the lady. The Gypsy May Baron is an amiable old woman, articulate and lucid, with an atrocious sense of dress. We had a pleasant conversation.”

“And?”

“And she has never heard of William Eldritch. She admitted, however, that she had recently read for both Flowers and Sloan, and was most surprised to learn that each had come to talk with me.”

“I see.”

“She is harmless, John, and too aged to be conniving in such a fashion. It is coincidence, and nothing more, you must take my word on that.”

I sat back in my chair and set to frowning. “I suppose in that case, we can set Mr. Flowers aside, as his complaint was strictly marital. Mr. Sloan, on the other hand? He seems more than a little obsessive.”

“Perhaps. Although I felt no sense of danger in his company. He's more of a damp squib – quite literally. Our poor wet carpet. If his message held a shred of truth, it was not brought to us with malevolence.”

I brushed some small and clinging crumbs of treacle tart from off my waistcoat. “Then where are we exactly with this problem, Holmes? Your suspicions lie with Eldritch?”

“ _Potentially_ Eldritch,” said Holmes. “We are on something of a quicksand. Is there no reply yet from that bungler, Lestrade? That's a nuisance.”

“Remind me of the fellow, what he did, and why he might bear such a grudge after this time,” I said.

“You don't remember taking notes? Why, he was convicted of an attempt to poison his entire family – which was both parents and three elder brothers – in an attempt to gain full control of the country estate. As it transpired, Eldritch was not a particularly gifted poisoner. His family were stricken for weeks, but survived. I discovered some traces of the plants he used, and a scorched paper of the mixture that was written in his hand. That was enough to get him 'nicked', and for me to earn his profoundest enmity.”

“I remember now,” I said.

Holmes emitted a snort.

“But I still don't understand why he should mail you his blood,” I repeated.

“Neither do I,” replied Holmes. “Which is why, my dear boy, we have arrived at this impasse.” He looked at his watch. “In heaven's name, whatever _is_ Lestrade doing?”

“Well, I imagine that he has other things to do, besides sitting in that office pile and waiting for our telegrams,” I said. “Oh, and before I forget to say, we have baked potatoes and fish for our dinner tonight.”

“I don't care,” said my friend, with a shake of his head. He extended a finger towards one of the boxes, and stroked at the green velvet wadding within. “Why green?” he mused aloud. “And in such a vibrant shade? I have to say, it is unusual.”

So we sat, each in our separate worlds, for one hour and then the next. The evening failed to bring Lestrade's reply, compelling us to wait a longer while, which nettled Holmes to no small degree. He picked up books and flung them down again. His violin was plucked, then cast aside. He smoked three pipes and grumbled sotto voce until I had to interject.

“Come to bed, or be quiet,” I told him. “You are driving me mad with your slamming and grunting.”

He looked at me askance, then. “Whereas you would wish to do the same, but upstairs in our room,” said he, a sharp twinkle in his eye.

We did retire early – rather needless to say – but it was only to sleep, or do the best that we could. We lay side by side in the grey of our room, with the last embers of warmth stretching out from the fire. Somewhere, outside, a dog barked. The wind rattled at the window. My friend breathed soft beside me, with the yawning gape of wakefulness set fast upon us both.

The cold and bitter morning woke us well before six-thirty. We wrapped our blankets high and heavy, and smoked a cigarette together.

“It is snowing,” I observed, spying the flake-fall through the curtain.

“It's February,” said my friend. “That is what February does.” He flicked the ash tip of our cigarette, and wrapped an arm around me. “We'd do well to keep each other warm.”

Cold winter mornings are my favourite just because of this.

Breakfast at eight-thirty, and the morning post at nine.

A parcel, small, and square, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. 

Inside: another wooden box – the third – with the same velvet, and a blood-filled, labelled phial.

We both stared at the initial that was hand-printed on the label: 'O'.

“O,” said Sherlock Holmes. And then: “There _is_ no 'O' in 'Eldritch'.”

And he looked at me, and I at him, with the same baffled expression.


	4. Savage

“What on earth is going on?” I said.

Holmes moved towards his desk. He neatly placed the new wooden box alongside its brethren, and swept his long and anxious fingers through his hair.

“E..L..O..,” said he. “I cannot think of any one whose first or second name begins with these three letters. Can you, John?”

I shook my head. “Perhaps it does not spell a name at all,” I said, inspired. “It could be spelling “eloin”, or “elocution”, or “elongation”, or--”

“That's quite enough,” said Holmes. “You don't have to exhaust the Oxford English Dictionary.”

I closed my mouth, my feelings hurt. “I was doing my best to help, Holmes.”

“Yes, I know, but goodness me. If this odd fellow is sending us phials of his blood merely to spell out the word 'elongation', I rather feel that exsanguination will be his only end reward. And if it is someone else's blood, well, surely a letter would have followed by now to explain.”

At that juncture, Mrs. Hudson arrived with a telegram.

“Eldritch's present address,” said my friend. He crumpled the paper up into his fist. “He is in Paris, France, and has been there all the week, so says the tardy Lestrade.”

“Elopement!” I exclaimed. “E.L.O.! I think we have it!”

“John, you are not listening. You are over-excited, and worse than a terrier.”

I made a mental note to take revenge for that remark.

Now, illumination may strike its mark at any moment, and it so happened that the moment was this one. I watched my friend with interest as his expression changed once more: his grey eyes narrowed, his lips were set, his chin was raised in silent umbrage. 

“Just one more letter,” said Sherlock Holmes, “and I shall know.”

“You'll know? Know what?”

“The truth. If it is as I suspect, I shall be savage.”

“Tell me,” I implored, but he shook his head, resolved.

I find that there is nothing worse than waiting for an unknown eventuality. I looked out glumly at the snow, cascading down in heavy flakes and settling thickly on the street, and wondered if we should be tramping in the midst of it quite soon. Holmes was settled in his chair, legs drawn up tight against his chest, so much resembling a solemn bird of prey. The air above him turned to fug as he smoked first one pipe then the next, some noxious mixture that matched well with his dark mood.

“How long must we wait, Holmes?”

He shrugged. “However long.”

Which was not so long – two hours passed, and then the bell rang out below. My friend unfurled himself, and stepped out to the landing. When he re-entered, he was holding a small parcel.

“The fourth,” I said.

Brown paper, twine, and wooden box, the green velvet and the phial of blood.

“Ha!” said Holmes. “Just as I thought.” He held it out for me to see. “The letter 'V'.”

He pulled on his coat, and wrapped his scarf about his neck.

“Come on, John, hurry, we are off out. Put on your boots, unless you fancy wading through the snow in carpet slippers.”

We were huffing down the street and looking for a hansom cab before I found the chance to speak.

“Where are we _going?_ ”

“Where do you think? St. James's Street.”

I was quiet then. The penny dropped, as the saying goes. We climbed into a cab and rattled on upon our way.

The club appeared to be deserted. We exchanged a few words with the genial attendant at Reception, and then passed through into the corridor beyond. Holmes was silent, which spelled misfortune for the fellow in the furthermost room.

There he was, the scoundrel, curled up in the bow window and looking out as if he didn't have a care in the whole world. He spun his head upon our entry and sprang up straight. His small eyes blinked, his large mouth flapped for a few seconds in surprise. 

“Langdale Pike,” my friend intoned, “what a fine morning to be seeing you.”

“Why, Mr. Holmes,” the fellow purred, by now recovered, “the feeling is mutual, I assure you. How may I help?”

Ridiculous man, in that unfashionable suit, all green velvet and lace, all high collar and pomp.

“I have something of yours,” said Sherlock Holmes. He reached into the linen bag that he was carrying, and brought forth a box, one, two, three, four, and set them out upon the table. He unlatched each lid in turn and looked to Pike for his response.

Pike had paled, just slightly. He agitated his lace cuffs, and doll-stepped slowly now towards us.

“How lovely,” said the fool, his face creased up in an expression that was half bedlamite, half guilty child.

“I would thank you for the sentiment, if it weren't quite so macabre,” said Holmes. “Hm, is your left arm paining you?”

My friend grabbed at Pike's upper limb, and wrenched up the white lace sleeve. I observed a cotton wadding taped around at a high point.

Pike yanked his arm free, face red with spite. “Just having a little _fun_ , my dear,” said he. “I thought you might enjoy a little puzzle. You were very quick about it, well done, you.”

“Your ideas of fun are questionable, Pike,” I said, my temper boiling. “What's your true motive behind this?”

He smiled a little, his eyes a slit. “Oh now, I see that Mr. Holmes failed to reveal to you the details of our meeting of a month ago. How discreet he is. A gentleman. There should be more of his ilk around.”

I turned to Holmes. “What does he mean?”

My companion sighed. “I mentioned that this fellow helped me with a case quite recently. We met here, to go over the finer details. You may guess the rest, John, if you care to.”

I thought for a brief moment. “You were alone. Pike chanced his luck.”

“Oh,” Pike interjected, “it wasn't so very much. A hand on his knee, a soft word or two. I was soundly rebuffed, I assure you – much to my disappointment. Faint heart never won fair lady, that is what they say, I do believe.” That smile again, speckled with strained anxiety.

“You little weasel, Pike,” I said. “So is this blackmail, then? A threat?”

“Not even remotely, Dr. Watson,” replied the jester. “Just a bitter, sad remonstrance. I am over it now. I am optimistic that it needn't damage our esteemed association.”

“My right fist, on the other hand,” I said calmly, “is optimistic of doing some damage to your esteemed face.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“John,” Holmes murmured to me, as we lay in bed that night, the lamp light flickering, “I do not think that a black eye was _quite_ what Pike was hoping for on Valentine's.”

“Well, nonetheless, my love, a black eye was what he got.”

A quiet moment while we both relived the memory.

“It is you who is the savage, and not I, I now discover,” said my friend.

“We each have our moments, I am quite sure of it. I wish you might have _told_ me.”

“About Pike's advance? I forgot, and I am sorry for that now. It might have solved the mystery sooner. Green velvet! Hah!” Holmes burrowed down beneath the covers. “Come here and warm me up. I'm cold. And, we could, hmm, you know.”

I remained where I was, a quiet smile on my face.

“ _John_. I said that I was sorry. Please come here. I... need you.”

“You need me?”

“Very much.”

I moved across. I jutted up against him, teasing, promising, but immotile. “You will have to do better than that. You will beg.”

“Damn you,” he whispered. He bit at my ear. He tormented my neck. “Damn you. Please. _Please_. Oh, you wretch. Don't play that game with _me_.”

It is as my friend says. I am a savage, and a man who finds temptation somewhat difficult.

I yielded – of course I did. Would you have expected otherwise?

 

END


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